


How to Define Clint Barton

by Quillium



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Sam Wilson Cooks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: It’s dark, his light dim, cushions saggy, and he wonders in the back of his mind how bad it would be if he at the pizza. “Can’t be that bad,” he muses to himself, “I mean, it hasn’t decomposed yet or anything. Probably from last night or something.”There ismoldon the pizza.ORClint and his makeshift family of the Avengers, SHIELD, Kate and Lucky.





	1. The Pizza Between the Seat Cushions (also Japan)

**Author's Note:**

> So. Hawkeye (2012) and MCU fusion. I have not written Clint before, so this will be fun. I hope this makes your day better.

Clint finds the pizza somewhere between midnight and 2am.

It’s not his fault that he’s up. Honest.

Well.

Like.

Sort of?

He’s pretty sure that it’s the Russian mob’s fault, though.

Like 99%. Super duper sure. Okay. _Fine_. 92%? 84%. That’s as far as he’s willing to go. It might also have something to do with him having a minor— completely minor, thank you very much, no matter what Phil says, he totally knows how to take care of himself— and getting high-key lost in the subway station until a college student with a cold cup of coffee directed him home.

He finds the pizza between two cushions of his seat which, really, just typical.

Lucky peers at him, squinting from his spot on the edge of the couch.

“Hey, boy,” Clint says, rubbing Lucky’s back.

Lucky closes his eyes, and thus Clint cannot really be blamed that he doesn’t realize he’s sitting on Lucky’s tail until he finds the pizza and shifts, Lucky yelping a bit as he does so.

“Sorry,” He whispers, and Lucky is either very forgiving or very tired, because he just closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

Clint yawns.

It’s dark, his light dim, cushions saggy, and he wonders in the back of his mind how bad it would be if he at the pizza.

“Can’t be that bad,” he muses to himself, “I mean, it hasn’t decomposed yet or anything. Probably from last night or something.”

There is mold on the pizza.

_Fuck it._

He eats it anyway, because Clint is stupid and he’s always been stupid and it’s been a long day and he fought the Russian mob or something and his head aches but it’s alright because even if it’s a concussion, it’s minor.

The pizza is chalk and dust and ash in his mouth and he wants to stop but he keeps eating anyway, because Clint has never really know what’s good for him.

The mold isn’t too bad.

He doesn’t feel sick yet.

“Maybe I have a super immune system,” he thinks out loud.

Sure. Why not. He doesn’t have super powers, right? Maybe he got to survive eating moldy pizza without getting sick in return.

Or maybe that concussion was worse than he’d thought.

It could go either way, honestly.

“What do you think?” He asks Lucky, finishing off the crust and licking his fingers. They, too, taste like dust. Gross, but Clint does it anyway. “Yeah,” he sighs, closing his eyes, “I’m pretty stupid.”

Lucky makes a noise, as though to disagree, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

He’s not sure.

(It’s very had to be sure when you’re tired. Just for the record. What record? Clint doesn’t know. He’s tired, okay?)

He pulls out his phone and watches _Steven Universe_ , falling asleep somewhere around Ruby evaporating all of the water in the pool and Sapphire freezing over the room of a motel.

Or he assumes that he’s fallen asleep. If he had passed out, this would be sort of awkward.

These things tend to make the others worry for some reason. Wild, honestly. He could never quite understand it.

He blinks, and when he wakes, his phone has fallen under the sofa, light has spilt through his window and his face is half buried in Lucky’s fur, short, golden ends in his eyes and around his nose.

It’s a wonder that he hasn’t suffocated in his sleep.

“Morning, boy,” he laughs a bit as he gets up, groaning a little when his muscles protest at the action. “Ugh. What fight did _I_ get in?”

“With some of the Russian mob, if my intel is right,” ‘Tasha, shiny red curls and curled lips, green eyes and a smile that knows she’s right, that she always is.

“‘Tasha,” he leans back onto the couch, covering his eyes with an arm, “You here to steal my hot chocolate again?”

“Phil says that you passed out,” ‘Tasha says, sipping a cup of what’s likely his hot chocolate.

Clint frowns.

“Phil isn’t monitoring my vitals anymore.”

‘Tasha smiles again, that cat-got-the-canary smile, as though to say _is that what you thought_?

_Oh_ , Clint thinks, sort of dumbly, and pats himself, “Where is it?”

Resignation.

A smile from ‘Tasha. Almost worth it, if it weren’t creepy as fuck.

“Your hearing aid,” she says.

“Fuck,” Clint mutters.

“Language.”

“Fucking _shit_.”

Another lipstick red smile, crinkled eyes and dimples, “He worries.”

“Yeah, well, he can worry without watching my vitals,” Clint debates taking off his hearing aids, “I need these, you know. Can’t just rip them out.”

“That’s the idea.”

He puffs out his cheeks, “You’re terrible.”

She examines her nails, shiny polish, pretty black dress, “Considering that you ripped yourself open to get the last tracker out, the higher ups probably thought this was a last resort. Honestly? Most of them didn’t think that it would work.”

“Taking advantage of my disability,” Clint says, chalk and ash in his mouth, and he starts to lift the sofa cushion, looking for his toothbrush.

“It wasn’t like we could put it on your clothes, you always found it.”

“I don’t like being tracked, ‘Tasha.”

“We couldn’t put it _on_ you, you felt it.”

“Toothbrush?”

“You need a new one.”

“Fuck you.”

“And when we put one under your skin, you _cut yourself open_ to get rid of it.”

“Goddammit, ‘Tasha, where’d you put my toothbrush?”

“Garbage.”

Clint moves to the garbage and pops it open, shifting around cans and plastic wraps in vain.

“I wasn’t really surprised when you cut open your leg,” ‘Tasha says, “But when SHIELD put one on your collarbone? Didn’t expect you to almost commit suicide there.”

“It’s not in here.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Where did you put my toothbrush?”

“It’s gone. We’re getting you a new one.”

“I liked _my_ toothbrush.”

“You haven’t changed it since Christmas.”

“So?”

“It’s September.”

“… _So_?”

A sigh, one the indicates that ‘Tasha thinks he’s being ridiculous again.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms over his chest, and moves to the kitchen sink to spit out the taste of mold lingering on his lips. “Undercover ops again?”

“Maybe I just wanted to look fancy.”

‘Tasha once said something like that, _maybe I just wanted to look fancy_ , as she leaned over to kiss her target, hands on his back and on his chest and she kisses his neck until the poison gets through and he’s dead, symptoms showing like a heart attack and her screaming and pretending she’s normal when it’s always seemed clear to Clint that she’s not, not even when she looks like a little girl who knows nothing but giggles and clumsy sex.

Clint had watched from the scope of a sniper’s nest, her backup (not that she needed it, she had never needed it, the higher-ups knew that, but they sent him anyway because they didn’t trust her yet and Clint had been the only one that ‘Tasha had trusted back then, the scruffy kid who didn’t have the guts to shoot her) as the guards rushed in and she sobbed into their shoulders.

Clint doesn’t mention this, because that was a long time ago and the memory doesn’t quite click right into this situation anyway, it doesn’t belong in this conversation and his brain is stupid.

“You always look fancy,” he says, quirked up smile and hopefully something like a leer (but he’s tired, and that kind of stuff requires effort).

“Flatterer,” ‘Tasha says. She runs a finger along his kitchen counter, slow, thoughtful, dragging his gaze to the movement. She’s always been amused by that, how Clint zeroes in on movement.

He says it’s because he’s a sniper.

She says it’s because he’s paranoid.

It’s the same, really, in the end.

“Why are you here, ‘Tasha?”

A side glance, “I already told you. You passed out. Phil was worried. You listening?”

“You wouldn’t be here just because I passed out,” Clint examines his fingers. Blunted ends. Arrow callouses. “Mission?”

She is silent.

“Don’t try to play me,” he says, voice scraping over itself, low, rough, because he knows that look, that silence.

“Some of the higher ups don’t know if you should keep up with your solos.”

“I can damn well keep up with my solos.”

“You’re an Avenger now, Clint.”

“So are you.”

She is quiet, looks him in the eye, “They want me to quit my solos, too.”

Clint sucks in a breath, sharp, fast, because ‘Tasha’s one of the best, hell, _he’s_ one of the best. “What are they thinking?”

She shrugs.

“It isn’t some test, is it?” He asks, because it’d be just like the higher ups to pull that.

“HYDRA’s becoming a lot more active. Aliens are pouring in, missions are slowing, we’ve got new recruits…”

“What’s your real aim, here?” He cuts in.

‘Tasha has never been quite straight with him. It isn’t her style, she isn’t the type to be so blunt, she likes to beat around the bush, and she’s only straightforward once she’s had her fun. “They’re making excuses. Fury can’t fight this one straight.”

Clint doesn’t speak, because if he does, he might do something stupid like say _you think I don’t know that?_

He stares at her fingers instead.

“This is about Japan, isn’t it.”

(This is about the council saying _we want SHIELD to assume control of the criminal underworld_ and Fury snarls _I’m not risking my best two agents on a plan like that_ and the council stares with cold eyes that say _we’ll see_ while Clint waits in silence, knowing he’s a pawn in a grander scheme.)

She stares at him as though to say _stupid_.

If this were Kate, she would have said something like _duh. Idiot_.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” Clint mutters.

She smiles at him, a quirk of her lips, fast, light. “Just to prove we can handle it.”

“They’re _baiting_ us.”

“They need us.”

“And they can’t just ask?” Clint drags a hand through his hair.

‘Tasha keeps smiling. That’s her weapon. The ease in her shoulders, her lips, her poise, as though everything is wonderful and the world is at peace.

He can see it already, her, smiling at the higher ups, crisp _thank you’s_ ringing with hollow disdain.

(She is always an assassin, Clint thinks, even when she gets ice cream with him or falls asleep on his gross pizza couch.)

Clint sighs.

Looks down at his own fingers.

“Living without solos can’t be so bad,” he muses.

‘Tasha gives him a look, one that looks right through him, refuses to buy what he feeds her.

He grins at her, crooked and wide and laughs, “Yeah, alright. Let’s go to Japan.”

___

Clint told Kate once that he didn’t kill anyone.

He’s a liar.

He knows this.

But Katie deserves something better than knowing Clint, who’s cold and a sniper through and through, so he offers her someone else, Clint whose coffee overflows because he’s too tired to notice it spilling over the counter, Clint who loses pizza between seat cushions, Clint who fights up close because she doesn’t need to know how many he’s killed from afar, how many scapegoats he’s created.

He calls her to watch Lucky.

“Going to Japan,” he says, sliding on those big shades that Kate seems so fond of, “Take care of him, ‘kay?”

Kate squints at him, like she’s trying to figure out whether or not he’s being serious. “Why are you going to Japan?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Heard the coffee’s good,” he shoots her a sharp smile before realizing it’s too Stark-ish to sound like a good excuse.

She gives him a Look. “Avengers business?”

He rolls his eyes, “‘Tasha wanted to go to some fashion show or something. I honestly have no idea.”

She nods, a bit more satisfied, because she’s met ‘Tasha and she knows her whims enough to think that could be a legit excuse. “So she’s dragging you to _Japan_? Seems a bit much.”

“She’s mad at Stark,” He grins, “You know what that means.”

Kate looks amused now, “He’s overcompensating?”

“Don’t drink any of my coffee,” Clint flips his keys between his fingers, showing off, maybe, and Kate rolls her eyes in that way she does when she tries to act like she isn’t impressed. (She totally is.)

“Your coffee is gross,” she says, like she hasn’t finished it off the last two times that he left her to babysit Lucky.

“I will _weigh it_ ,” Clint threatens.

A wrinkled nose, now, from Kate, “Obsessive much?”

“I mean it, Katie-Kate.” He took that coffee from some mob boss’ lair when he shot him a while back. It’s good stuff. Foreign. Imported. And if Kate tastes it, she’ll know. And if she knows, she’ll be suspicious. She’s clever that way, his Kate. “Love you, treat yourself, blah blah blah. Make sure you don’t spoil Lucky too much. No trying to let him sleep in some fancy doggy bed, the couch is fine.”

“Right,” She crosses her arms over her chest, leans against a wall as he slips his shoes on, “You going to Japan with just a duffel bag?”

He shoots her a confused look, “What more do I need?”

She grumbles something like _men_ under her breath, and says, “I want something nice.”

“I’ll buy you a keychain at the airport.”

“Cool story, bro,” Kate’s mouth says, but her eyes say _I will shoot you and peel your skin off to decorate my welcome mat if you even think about it_. Kate examines her nails, waits, and, predictably, because the women in his life are the time who will gauge out his eyeballs with a melon scooper, Clint folds.

“Something cute. Fancy. Whatever.”

Something of a smug smile, and Clint wonders why he’s so weak to her. “I’m sure that I’ll love it.”

“Sure,” Clint throws his hands in the air, “It’ll be fantastic.”

She raises an eyebrow.

Clint’s hands fall back down, “Sorry,” he sighs.

A laugh. She wishes him well. He talks some more. She acts completely unimpressed. (Actually, she might not just acting. But Clint doesn’t want to let his pride think about that.)

He throws her his spare keys, or, um, he would, except, um, he kind of lost them, and um, Katie-Kate?

Turns out she had both pairs, because he accidentally dropped one in the vent over the toilet and it fell out while she was trying to figure out what the weird clanking sound was. (The key being blown against the grate.)

“Pull yourself together,” she says, completely unimpressed.

“I am totally together,” he lies.

She does not buy it.

Kate typically does not buy his lies. It’s very annoying.

(She buys the big ones, doesn’t know she’s even shopping, always trusts him in those things, trusts him to be good in ways he can never be.)

“Love you, boy,” Clint tells Lucky, ruffling his fur.

Lucky brushes against the back of his hand, smiling in that cute doggy way ofhis, and Clint feels a pang.

_My will is in the kitchen’s second drawer, under a false bottom_ , he thinks of saying.

_I’m going on a suicide mission because the council isn’t sure they want me around anymore_ , he thinks of saying.

“Keep your keys in the second drawer by the fridge,” he says, smiling at Kate, “’s where I keep all my important stuff.”

She looks unimpressed.

It’s alright.

If all goes well, she’ll stay that way.

___

It does not go well.

It very, very obviously does not go well, because Tsuna, head of the largest mafia family in Italy, is visiting relatives in Japan, and he’s friends with the third target that Clint went after.

He had gone after six in total, in one night, running himself ragged, disguising them all as someone else’s work, letting someone else take the fall as the underworld falls into a controlled chaos that lets SHIELD run the game for a while, and he’s succeeded, but he might not survive.

“I hope you understand that it’s nothing personal,” Tsuna says cooly, calmly, as his minion traces Clint’s collarbone with the tip of his sword. It’s warm, he feels the blood trickle down, and Clint keeps his face blank.

_Poker face._

_Poker face._

_Poker f-_ uck _-ow._

_Poker face_.

“If it’s nothing personal,” Clint says, eyes on Tsuna’s, “Then you should let me go.”

A laugh, short, amused, from the henchman on his back as Tsuna says, “I know that you’re smarter than that, Barton.”

They know his name.

Fuck.

Fuck.

_F u c k._

Yeah. He knows better. If it isn’t personal, that means it’s to keep up a rep. And keeping up a rep cannot be ignored. Personal can.

“I was close to Bianchi,” Tsuna says. “I hope you understand. It’s a bit of a pain to clean up, cover up deaths. But, well, you know how it is.”

Light. Almost apologetic, like it’s a minor inconvenience, the same way that Clint forgetting that he’s run out of milk is a minor inconvenience. Like Clint dying is equatable to running out of milk. Annoying. But easily fixed.

He smiles a bit at Clint, holds out a hand.

The henchman to his right plucks the cigarette from his lips and puts it in his boss’s hands.

It is fit in the small of his neck, the little spot at the bottom, right between his two collarbones.

Clint grits his teeth and keeps his face blank.

“Sorry,” Tsuna kicks his face, “Couldn’t resist. Takeshi, Gokudera. You two can take care of it.”

Something like a smile in the voice of the one on his back, “Thanks, boss.”

Clint forgets his poker face somewhere later, after time has begun to blur in pain and the thought of plans being laid out and discarded for escape (and a fight, because Clint can’t get away from these goons without a fight, pathetic as that is) and it’s another ten minutes before he manages to rip out his fingernails and dig it into the neck of the one with the cigarette.

He knocks the other one unconscious, and slips into one of the vents.

Clint gets out a few minutes later and finds ‘Tasha waiting in the hotel room, bodies littering the floor around her.

“You’re late,” she says, a scar on her cheek and bullets in the walls.

“Sorry,” Clint says, smiling awkwardly at her, “Forgive me?”

‘Tasha clicks her tongue at him, “So much for under the radar.”

He offers her the most apologetic expression that his face can form, and then, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I saw an outdoor ramen stall on the way here.”

“Your treat,” she says, wiping the blood from her cheek and putting on a bandaid, concealer quick to do its job.

Clint cleans up, too, though he doesn’t bother with the bandaids before he puts the concealer on.

“That’s not good for you,” ‘Tasha says, leaning against the bathroom wall.

“Neither is getting a cigarette on my neck,” Clint leans into the mirror, “Think that I can pass these off as hickeys?”

She rolls her eyes at him, which is a no.

He sighs and puts concealer over it. “This is a real pain.”

“Unless you want to show your face in public, looking like that,” ‘Tasha sounds unhappy with him, “Deal with it.”

He sighs, and does that.

(The ramen, at least, is delicious. So. Worth it?)

___

Returning to New York, is, as always, an oddity.

The smell of street food and the bustle of people, always dressed so fashionably, is an odd contrast to the blood and dark and the still silence as he pulls the trigger of a gun (Clint has never been one for guns, but SHIELD is, and Clint understands that he can’t use a bow and arrow for assassinations, that has always been out of the question).

Kate is standing in front of his apartment when he arrives, pulling out of the taxi with a fading black eye and the taste of gross airplane food still on his tongue.

She looks, as always, impeccable, straightened black hair and her bug-eyed sunglasses, black and white cigarette pants with a pastel pink crop top.

Faintly, Clint can make out the outlines of a kevlar bra beneath the crop top, offering it a stiff appearance.

“You’re late,” she says, and he is by about twenty minutes, but that isn’t his fault, okay, there was a _puppy_ and then he dropped his ice cream so _obviously_ he had to get another except he got lost and… Okay, fine. So it was his fault.

Oops.

“Oops,” he says lightly, carelessly, holds out his hands and Kate is rolling her eyes, he knows, she’s moving her eyebrows in that way that she does when he gives him the _look_ , the one that says ‘I am too cool to hang out with you but I am allowing you to hang with me anyway, but why do I bother?”.

It’s their Hawkeye-telepathy working here, he knows it.

“Thanks, Katie-girl,” he says, blowing her a kiss.

She drops the keys in his outstretched palm with a nonchalant posture, fingers slowly unfurling and doing that thing where it looks like she’s slouching even though her posture is perfect, like he isn’t worth her time. It’s alright. Clint knows that’s her way of showing affection.

“What happened to your eye?” She asks, nose crinkling, “You didn’t open the door in your face again, did you?”

“ _Four times_ , and you think this is a pattern!” Clint throws his hands up in the air, “Of course not!”

Kate stares at him.

Okay.

Fine.

So, he opened the door in his face a few times. _To be fair_ , he was very tired.

(To be fair, Clint is _always_ tired.)

“Would you believe me if I said that I got beat up by the Italian mafia boss’ goons in Japan?” Clint asks, pouting.

Kate gives him a Look. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says in a disbelieving tone, “And yet.”

Clint huffs, “Well, that is totally what happened.”

“Right, then,” she shakes her head at him, “Why are you like this?”

“You love me,” he winks at her, “How’s Lucky?”

“Still cuter than you think you are,” She says, examines her fingernails, bright purple and shiny, “How’s Natasha?”

“Still deadlier than you think you are,” Clint shoots back, which Kate rolls her eyes at because she _knows_ that Natasha’s deadlier than her honestly. “Hot dogs?”

“You are disgusting,” Kate takes off her sunglasses and tucks them in the lining of her pants, off to the side so they rest against her hip, “Street food? Really?”

“Street food is good,” Clint says defensively. “Street food defines the _culture_ of a place.”

“Right,” Kate purses her lips together, “My father’s holding a gala tonight. Want to come?”

Clint is immediately on guard, because Katie-Kate rarely invites him to galas for fun. “Why?”

“No reason,” Kate smirks because neither of them are inclined to believe that, “One of the clients is acting shifty.”

That is reasonable.

Perfectly so, in fact.

So perfectly reasonable, and straightforward, that Clint can’t help but think…

“You’re not trying to set me up with someone again, are you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

The corners of Kate’s lips quirk up which means yes, and he groans as loudly and obnoxiously as he can while she slips her sunglasses back on. “The limo will pick you up at 6:30,” she says, clear, light, no room for argument. “We’ll take care of your outfit, since your tux still has some blood on it from last time.”

“I can dress myself,” Clint says, which is what he always says, and what never works.

“Shabbily,” Kate says, which is what she always says, and always brooks no room for argument.

“What if I have plans?” Clint demands.

Kate looks amused, “Do you?”

Clint shuffles.

Huffs.

Sighs.

“…No,” he mutters, grumbly and low.

“That’s what I thought,” Kate says, satisfied. “See you tonight, Hawkeye.”

He rolls his eyes at her so that she knows how annoying it is that she keeps trying to set him up with random people, “Bye, Hawkeye.”

She saunters away, and Clint wonders how bad it would be if he at just one hot dog.

(Just one.)

Yes.

Yes to the hot dog.

(This is such a bad decision.)

He’ll give Lucky some, too.

(Why is Clint like this.)

He takes Lucky out, and eats three hot dogs.

(Lucky eats one, proceeds to be very happy, and decides that slobbering all over the hot dog vendor is the way to demonstrate this affection. Clint, full of three hot dogs, sluggishly pulls Lucky away with a sigh.)

Overall, he calls this a success.

___

“ _Really_?” Kate demands, eyes narrowed as she squints at the ketchup stain on Clint’s shirt, “You went out for hot dogs?”

Clint does his very best not to look sheepish.

“Okay, okay,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “Whatever. Let’s fan out.”

They move, Clint is dressed in a fancy tux, they go to the gala and lo and behold…

“ _Barton_!” Stark says, clearly delighted as he moves over to them, wine glass in hand and Pepper looking distinctly horrified some feet away. “What are you doing here?”

Clint’s luck is _terrible._

“Kate has kidnapped me,” Clint says, doing his best to sound panicked and putting as much save-me-NOW into his voice as he can. “Quick, steal me away before she notices.”

“Hardy-har-har,” Kate says, fingers digging into his arm, looking disturbingly exquisite in her floor length lavender dress with it’s high waist-line and beaded amethysts and saffron decorating the top. “I’m here to get Clint laid.”

Stark nods approvingly, “I suppose that it would be hard, what with that face of his.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Clint says, reaching out to snatch some fancy rich people snack from a passing man in a butler suit. “I don’t need to get laid.”

Stark and Kate give him the flattest looks ever, and he rolls his eyes, brushing the crumbs from his mouth.

“You two are impossible.”

They sigh at him in unison and he regrets them knowing each other.

(In the end, Clint does not get laid, a super villain attacks, and they end up going to get ice cream, Pepper sighing _Tony_ and Stark giving her a Look and Clint is vaguely amused as Kate mutters _online dating_ under her breath.)

___

Clint is a mess of worries and anxieties and…

He pulls back the string. It sings in his fingers.

Light.

Soft.

_Twang_.

The arrow flies, lands perfectly in the centre, the slick of the arrowhead flying through wood, cutting a perfect, neat line through the middle and he nods approvingly as Stark beams, smug.

Archery has always been easier. So much easier.

It’s easier to shoot than think.

Maybe that’s the carnie in him, the kid with no education, but it is.

He moves, his muscles burn, his arm aches as Cap comes in and whispers to Stark _how long has he been doing this?_ And Stark says back _two hours straight_ in wonder, as though Clint has not done this before, self destructing as he pulls back the arrow and erases any thoughts still trying to swim in his stupid head.

String.

Back.

Elbows straight.

Breath steady.

Eyes sharp.

The arrow sings.

Everything is simpler this way.

It’s clear. Straight.

He holds the bow.

The target is in front of him, moving, and he can see the pattern as he moves his arm back and…

It lands.

Perfect.

Neat.

Stark and Cap are whispering as Clint moves to take a swig of his water, to retrieve his arrows, and again, he stands, still, perfectly still, arrows on his back and bow in hand and his arm moves back.

___

Bruce intercepts him before the third hour arrives, bleary-eyed and worn out like an old shirt, but something calm to his smile that wasn’t there before he began spending so much time with Tony.

“What’s up, doc?” Clint says, light, easy as he takes a sip of water and pulls back his bow.

Bruce stares at the fallen plastic bottles, five of them empty and Clint going through the sixth, something to the crease of his forehead and the lines between his eyebrows as he says, “Nothing,” but it’s obviously _something_ as he leads Clint away.

They don’t say much, working in silence as Clint puts his bow against the rack, puts away his arrows and they are silent when Bruce reaches the kitchen, Clint trailing behind, and a zucchini is shoved into his hands.

Clint raises an eyebrow, smooth and uncertain.

“Chop,” Bruce says, voice rough as he clarifies (thin, even slices) and pulls out a pan.

“Vegetable timbale?” Sam asks when he appears, ten minutes later, grocery bags in hand and a song under his breath.

“You got what I asked for?” Bruce asks instead of answering and Sam rolls his eyes as he hands Bruce a bag of kale.

Bruce nods approvingly and inclines his head, “Peel and chop the carrots.”

Sam laughs, says something about immediately putting him to work that’s light, teasing, and Bruce rolls his eyes as Clint dices the garlic, smooth, practiced movements.

(Clint has always been good with a knife, but those thoughts are bleeding away, the single-mindedness of the range is bleeding away into something else, something that he can’t quite identify properly.)

Time flies, Sam singing old songs and trying to serenade Bruce, Clint joining in with his most off-tune, terrible singing voice that he can muster as he dredges up some stupid carnie song about falling in love with a girl in a paper bag, Bruce laughing as he shoves their faces away with the heel of his hand on the bridge of their noses, but he joins in after some coercion.

When they are finished, oven cooking and the three of them waiting, Sam suggests _Dog Cops_ which is how they end up marathoning it as they try to eat too-hot food, bouncing it between fingertips as Bruce laughs at them, fork in hands and Clint huffs _I can handle it_ as Sam pops some goat cheese in his mouth and says something about heaven.

It’s lazy and ridiculous and stupid and Clint doesn’t usually eat vegetables but there is something warm and good here, all the same, that he relishes as he closes his eyes and puts his head on Bruce’s shoulder and the three of them fall asleep to the dim light of the TV and the dramatic shouts of _Dog Cops_.


	2. Off the Bench (also Kate Bishop)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We didn’t want to send you to Japan,” Coulson says quietly, his cup half raised, as though he isn’t sure if he wanted to drink it or not, as though he were still considering, the cup perched in the air on the flat of his pinky. “I hope that you know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bangs my head on the table* I hate this chapter. I hate plot. Why did I write this chapter. Why.

Here’s the thing.

Clint is a screw up.

He _knows_ that he’s a screw up. Has known it since before he was even a carnie kid, has known it from the moment he first breathed, Clint has always been and always will be a screw up.

But even now, sitting in front of his apartment as Kate pulls up in her sleek silver car, it tastes like ash and disappointment in his mouth, screaming _screw-up, screw-up_ even though he knows that’s what he’s always been.

“I’m sorry,” he says before she can even close the car door, “I know that I told you that I’d take a little longer and asked you to pick me up but then they canceled and…”

“It’s fine,” she says, cold and clear and crisp and in that voice that indicates that it’s _not_ fine, clearly not at all, and he is grateful for that, grateful for the way that she speaks, cold and biting and harsh and judgemental, because if she had forgiven him, he would never be able to forgive himself.

“It’s not,” he says, rushing forward to take her bag as she purses her lips at him, his silver keys flashing from her fingers as she pulls them out and puts them in his door.

“It’s _fine_ ,” she repeats, a bit harsher this time, a bit more firm, “It’s just, I went all the way to your weird gym club, I waited for, like, ten minutes, and then you just didn’t show. It’s fine. I know, you forgot.”

Unspoken, hanging in the air, _you always forget._

 _That isn’t fair_ , Clint wants to say, wants to say _I didn’t mean to, I thought,_ but it’s stupid, it’s useless, he knows that it’s true, so he stares at her fancy red soled shoes and tries not to wish for the ground to swallow him up.

He stands at the doorway for a moment before entering, and the world feels sleek and slim and beautiful and Clint feels like dirt and grass, a freak and a carnie trying to squeeze where he’ll never belong.

“I know that you’re self-destructive,” Kate says, frustrated and exhausted and resigned, “But can you not drag me into that, too? You keep fucking yourself up, Clint, I don’t need your help in fucking _me_ up, too.”

And he knows this, knows that she’s smart and amazing and all these things and he’s a spot on the cement, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“I know that you’re mad…” he starts.

“Then you know better than to talk to me,” Kate says, ice cold.

And yeah.

That’s fair.

(He didn’t know what he was trying to say, anyway. Just that he felt like he had to say something. Ha. Look what good _that_ did.)

He hangs up his jacket and she pulls one of her fancy Chinese red bean popsicles from his fridge and he sighs and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly before heading to his bedroom.

His door closes quietly behind him while Kate fumes on the couch, but she’s good to him, always so good, so she doesn’t yell or scream or anything like that.

(Somehow, sitting on his bed, everything silent, his hands folded together, it feels just as bad.)

There’s chatter from the room next door, the walls are thin, he hears Kate breathe, in, out, mediating because she’s got her life together like that, Lucky breathing shallowly, asleep, his heater humming, clunky and awkward because Clint still hasn’t gotten around to getting it fixed yet.

There’s so much noise, so much sound, and it still feels too quiet, too still.

The world outside is a bustle of motion, colours and movement and footsteps on the sidewalk as cars inch forward, a sleek world outside, and Clint feels trapped by his own decisions, by his own stupid choices that left him here, hands folded, silent on his bed.

 _Christ_.

She’s not even his lover or anything.

Just a kid.

(A kid that he shouldn’t be so fond of. A kid with purple sunglasses and epic archery skills and who rolls her eyes, who Clint wants to be better than him, a kid who Clint, for all his screw-ups, wants to do right by. And he just failed her. He asked a favour, and didn’t even hold up his end of the bargain.)

How do you apologize for something you can’t properly, ever, make up for?

He’s tired.

He asked Kate to pick him up.

He didn’t need to.

But he did.

She agreed.

She went.

He didn’t stay.

He went home.

Without her.

To be fair, he thought that she wouldn’t come until later.

Thought she wouldn’t leave to pick him up until later.

Didn’t realize she had gone until he came home to a locked door and realized she had already left the apartment to go pick him up.

And then, he calls her, and it’s too late, because he’s screwed up, and she knows it, and he knows it, and everyone knows it.

He falls asleep.

When he wakes, the light is on, and Kate is learning French on her phone.

“You’re an asshole,” she says, closing her app.

“I know,” Clint says.

She stares at him.

Purses her lips.

“You’re so annoying. At least _sound_ sorry.”

“I am,” Clint says.

“You don’t sound it.”

Clint shrugs. “Can’t help what I sound like.”

Her lips twist to the side, nose scrunching, something like a sneer, but too much emotion to be one, too much emotion for it to properly be so.

“I am,” Clint stares her in the eye, trying to emulate ‘Tasha, intense and cold and piercing, “I am sorry.”

She returns the look, jaw fixed, chin raised, eyes fire, “I know.” And then, exhausted, more tired. “I know.”

He always is.

It’s never enough.

(With Kate, though, she fills in the gaps, like she knows he’s not enough and she’s got enough play-doh to shove in his cracks and make up for it. Like she’s so much, he doesn’t have to be, because her good will spill in and cover up his bad.

He knows it won’t be enough, one day, that she’ll be gone and he’ll be left like that old place they stayed in, back when he was with the circus, that place with the spiders and the cracks in the walls and the wind on his skin even with a blanket over his stomach.

But stupidly, he hopes that they can stay this way just a little longer.)

They are silent for a moment, then he stands and rolls his shoulders back. “I’ve got a garbage bag full of onions in my bathtub.”

She stares at him.

Long.

Disbelieving.

Understanding, vaguely horrified with it.

“Why are you like this,” Kate asks, long-suffering, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to stave off a migraine.

He shrugs, “You want to eat onions?”

An incredulous stare. “ _Just onions_?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“God. Everything. Everything is wrong with that. What’s wrong with you? _God_.” And again, for good measure, “ _God_.”

Clint smiles a bit, slow, awkward, and he still feels guilty, but he knows it’s alright with Kate.

He’s still mad at himself.

Still feels like a screw up.

But as Kate groans, _come on, we’re going shopping_ and he acts scandalized that she didn’t take the opportunity to quote Mean Girls, he thinks that it doesn’t matter so much as it maybe should, if he's a screw up or not, so long as this tentative friendship is alright.

* * *

The kid looks like yakuza, bleached hair and almond eyes, a cigarette dangling from bony thin fingers.

“I can’t be seen with you,” he says in a voice as smooth as cotton, low and nervous even as he tries to keep up his front of bravado, “You’ve got to understand that, yeah?”

“Of course,” Clint answers, plucking the cigarette from the kid’s fingers. “Smoking’s bad for you.”

The kid pulls out a new one and sticks it between his lips, “Smoking isn’t what’s going to kill me,” he laughs, gravel and stone and pavement against skin. “Tsunayoshi’s gunning for your head.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, “And here I was, thinking that you had fresh news for me.”

The kid’s eyes flicker from side to side, “He’s mad. Raging mad. All his best people— Chrome, Ryohei, Ace— all gunning for your head. You killed one of his head men, you know that? Put another in a coma… nobody’s sure if he’ll even make it, you beat him up so bad.”

Clint’s lips twist to the side.

He doesn’t regret it, not really, but something in it, the human part that likes Katie-Kate, feels like he shouldn’t have done that.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me, then,” he says.

“Fuck, yeah, I shouldn’t,” the kid takes another drag from his cigarette, long and slow and shakes his head, “You know what Tsunayoshi’s going to do with you? He’ll burn every place you’ve been, even the factory where the ice cream from your _grocery store_ comes from, he’ll kill everyone you know, he’ll…”

“Kid,” Clint says, and he pinches the cigarette between two fingers.

 _Poof_.

It burns against the tips of his fingers.

The ash falls, ember and orange and golden and then grey and chalk and dust, scattered in the wind.

Ow.

The kid gapes at him.

“Kid,” Clint repeats, feeling kind of sick, looking at this yakuza and only seeing a kid who’s scared but more scared for Clint (Clint, because Clint was killing aliens, maybe, Clint, because he’s something, he doesn’t know what, maybe a hero, maybe not, to this kid) than himself, “You got a place to go?”

“I’m fine,” the kid says, shaking fingers. He doesn’t get a new cigarette. “So long as Tsunayoshi doesn’t find out.”

“I can arrange for you and your people to go somewhere safe,” Clint says, which, _what the fuck_ , he’s not _Coulson_ , but he can’t bring himself to regret his words even once they’re out of his mouth.

And the kid stares at Clint like his word view has been shattered, like he’s scared, like he doesn’t understand, and then he says, quietly, “I belong with the yakuza.”

“You don’t have to,” Clint says calmly, but he’s desperate, he always is, just beneath his cocked head and easy stance, he wants to talk fast but his brain is slow and because it’s slow, his mouth always takes a long time to say what he’s gotta say, and even then, it’s never the right thing.

The kid gives him a sad, long, look, as though Clint is the kid, the one who doesn’t get it, and then he says, “Your fingers don’t hurt from the cigarette?”

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Clint says in lieu of an answer.

“It’s not what’s gonna kill me,” the kid shakes his head, almond eyes and bleached hair, pierced ears and Clint only just notices a bird tattoo peeking out from his collarbones, and he wonders if it’s fear under that bravado, if if it’s not bravado at all, only pained resignation, like when Kate looks at him and says _Clint_ and he can’t look at her.

Clint closes his eyes, looks away, knowing, hating, he can’t do anything, and when he opens his eyes again, the kid’s gone, vanished in the wind, only sign that he was there a crumbled cigarette, blending in with every other cigarette butt clogging the sidewalk cracks and smouldering by the sides of this neighbourhood’s crappy buildings.

 _God_.

Clint shuffles away, cigarette on the ground, hands in his pockets, and then the alley is empty, like nothing was ever there.

* * *

Clint is tired.

So tired.

“I like happy endings,” he says, sprawled on Tony’s kitchen counter, arms hanging over, one hand sitting beside a mug of coffee (because apparently he needs to drink from a cup, _what the fuck, Barton, at least_ pretend _to have your shit together, it’s what got me this far_ and Clint raises an eyebrow _you’re not fooling anyone, Stark_ ).

“That’s great,” Tony raises an eyebrow, “You like fairy tales?”

Clint stares at his coffee, and closes his eyes, “Nah,” he says, “In fairy tales, good things happen to good people, bad things to bad people. All that sort of shit.”

Tony is perched beside his sink, legs dangling, in a Metallica shirt and pyjama pants. “You don’t think that should happen?”

“People aren’t good,” Clint closes his eyes, “Not good, or bad, or anything like that. Just people. If you’re good to people, people’ll be good to you.”

Tony is silent, and then he drinks his coffee. “Like mirrors?”

“Yeah.” Clint closes his eyes, and burning behind his eyelids is the temptation to put his head on his arm and fall asleep and forget about the world around him.

“Don’t think that works, Barton,” Tony says, “I mean, I’m always a piece of shit.”

 _You’re not_ , Clint thinks, _you’re good on so many ways_.

Good in the ways that ‘Tasha is good, good in the way that they look at the red in their ledger, that instead of running like Clint does, he chooses to work until it’s black, until he’s up to his eyeballs in good and repentance.

Tony has stared into the void, and then started to make a bridge so that people would never have to step into it, or look in it again, just walk over it and never know any better.

The type of good that chooses to save, that chooses to face fear rather than let it scare him away.

( _The kind of good_ , Clint doesn’t let himself think, _that I could never be._ )

Clint doesn’t open his eyes. “I don’t know, Stark. I’m too tired to figure this shit out.”

Tony laughs, quiet and thoughtful, that way he does when his mind is already moving onto the next thing but he thinks that you’re making a good point. It isn’t that he’s not interested, just that he’s already categorized and filed it and moves on.

Clint sighs, and he’s asleep, coffee on the table, Tony silent.

* * *

“You could call, sometime, you know,” Coulson says, sipping coffee from his Captain America mug and dressed in an impeccable suit and tie.

“You’re already keeping tabs on me,” Clint grunts, pulling his shirt off. “Why bother?”

“Well, you know,” Coulson smiles that stupid lip quirky smile, “It’s what people typically do when they want to keep in touch.”

Clint knows.

Clint _wants_ to keep in touch, he does.

It’s just.

So.

Freaking.

 _Hard_.

He can barely get anything done for _himself_ , let alone take the time to talk to people who he’ll be in touch with sooner or later, anyway.

And if they slip from his fingers, well, he was never a people-person anyway, yeah?

Yeah.

Sure.

(That’s what he tells himself.)

“Coffee?” Clint asks, opening his fridge door and blinking when there’s nothing but Kate’s almond milk left in the fridge.

“No thank you,” Coulson holds up a hand, “I’m drinking your almond milk.”

“It’s Kit-Kate’s.”

“Miss Bishop.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hit on her right now, you know. The underworld has her face on their walls, hers and yours, with the message that you two are wanted.”

Clint had known about the hit on his headquarters.

Clint has seen, has been pushed in front of a movie car, had heard Tsunayoshi’s goons talk about the price on him _careful with the face_.

He didn’t care.

“Kate has a price on her head?”

Now, a little, he does, because he’s stupid like that.

“You didn’t know?” Now it’s Coulson’s turn to sound surprised, which, honestly, is quite ridiculous, in Clint’s opinion. What was he _expecting_ , for Clint to actually know what was going on? To have his life together?

“The almond milk is her’s,” Clint says, which, really is all the explanation that Coulson needs, because that stupid almond milk is the only thing left in his fridge and doesn’t that just goes to show how terribly Clint is at life-ing. Life-ing? Living? Erm.

“I like almond milk,” Coulson says mildly, because he’s weird like that.

Clint scrunches up his nose. _Ugh_. “You weird people and your weird milks,” he mutters, “I can barely deal with normal milk.”

“Ah, yes,” Coulson raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, “Because we should all bow to the other alternative and replace all fluids with coffee.”

“Good stuff,” Clint agrees.

Coulson purses his lips together and does that thing that he does, that little thing with his face, when he feels like Clint is being irresponsible and stupid and high-key self destructive (which is ridiculous because Clint is never high-key about _anything_ , thank you very much, because he’s a damn good sniper who can do his job if nothing else).

It’s a face that he makes often.

“Come on, Coulson,” Clint drinks his coffee. It tastes like heaven. Sludge. Whatever. Same difference. “You here to tell me that there’s money for my pretty little head?”

“No,” Coulson says, quietly, considering, head cocked to the side at Clint, “That was a freebie.”

“I knew that you loved me,” Clint smirks at Coulson, crooked and cheap and funny. “Here for a mission, then?”

“We didn’t want to send you to Japan,” Coulson says quietly, his cup half raised, as though he isn’t sure if he wanted to drink it or not, as though he were still considering, the cup perched in the air on the flat of his pinky. “I hope that you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Clint sets the coffee down. Turns to look out the window, at the horizon, at the streets, and the crap and litter and mess that is this city. Breathes in. Out. It’s hard to see it, the city that the Spider-kid loves and Tony chose, but in its own, stupid, screwed up way, it’s his city, too. “I got the job done, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Coulson looks down, and he’s not Coulson anymore, he’s Phil, intimate in a way that makes Clint’s skin crawl and his fingers itch for a weapon, he has that same look on his face that he had when he said to Clint, hands on Clint’s wrists, _you can still get out of here, I can get you out of SHIELD, just say the word_ , “You always do.”

“Fuck you,” Clint narrows his eyes, shifts his head, and Phil bleeds back to Coulson, to what he’s _supposed_ to be, “I’m not here for pity or whatever the hell you’re here to give. I did my job, same as anyone.”

“I wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” Phil shifts, his shoulders straighten, lips purse, and he’s Coulson again, too, painfully aware of his falling. “But it’s a mess, what happened there. We’ve engaged some high powers, and due to Tsunayoshi catching you—“

 _Due to your failure to control the situation_ , Clint hears loud and clear, jaw locking and he can’t even argue, because he _did_ fuck up, he got caught and it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be easily solved with a neat little clean up team.

“—It has made the situation rather… _complicated_.“

“Say it as it is,” Clint snorts, “I fucked shit up.”

An annoyed glance from Coulson, who calmly sips his drink, “We’d like to reign you in, a bit.”

Clint lowers his eyes. Stares at his hands, knuckles suddenly white around the curve of his coffee pot. “You want me off the field,” he says flatly.

“It won’t be permanent,” Coulson says, making eye contact with Clint, sharp, clear, _focused_.

Shit.

This will be hard to get out of, if Coulson’s giving him _that_ look.

“You want me off the field,” Clint repeats, a bit less flat, a bit more incredulous, a bit more of the panic swelling in his chest surfacing to his throat.

“Until we can cover this up.”

“ _I_ can cover things up.”

Steel in Coulson’s voice, sharp as a rapier, “You will stand down, agent.”

_Shit._

“I hate when you use that voice,” Clint rolls his eyes.

“I hate when I have to,” Coulson answers, stubborn and unhappiness in the twist of his lips, the curve of his wrist.

Clint hates looking at him, he thinks. Hates looking at Coulson and knowing that he could have chosen out. Could have chosen to be better. “You’ll look after Kate?” He asks, quietly, finally.

“Of course,” Coulson answers. Crisp. Clean. He finishes off his drink, washes the mug, and the water doesn’t even splash on his fancy suit and tie. Figures. “Will you be coming back to SHIELD HQ to live for a few weeks?”

He already knows the answer to that, Clint knows that Coulson knows, but he wants an answer, one said out loud, truth set in spoken words.

“Nah,” Clint says, “I’m good.”

He spent too long in SHIELD HQ, being a rookie, being cold, moving from mission to mission in a world of the smell of metal from guns and bedroom walls that felt more like prison bars and blood, except he didn’t smell it, he’s too far to.

(Sometimes, Clint thinks he might still live in that world of grey and reds, off shades, forgetting the real world beyond death and gunpowder and the rightness of the scope of a sniper’s rifle against his cheek. He will never admit it out loud, though, not even to ‘Tasha and her knowing, accusing stare.)

“Alright,” Coulson nods, head slightly tilted to the side, gaze sharp, like he’s filing Clint, disassembling him in his head into muscle and sinew and ligaments, like a puzzle that he knows intimately and can put together in his sleep. “Call me if you change your mind.”

He doesn’t leave a number, doesn’t have to, Clint knows his number, knows it because Coulson had taken Clint’s hand in his own and repeated the string of numbers, over and over, after Clint had accepted what was basically a suicide mission, hadn’t stopped until Clint had pulled away and repeated it, swearing, _fuck you_ , and Coulson had shaken his head, smiling wryly, _don’t tell anyone else, agent_ while Clint had looked at him funny, not quite understanding.

(He still doesn’t quite understand it, why Coulson did it, when he hadn’t even been his handler, when Clint had been passed onto someone else—temporarily, in the end, but of course they couldn’t have known that at the time.)

“I won’t,” Clint snarks back, because there isn’t much else to say.

Coulson just smiles at him, that funny, irritating little smile of his, and with a jaunty little wave, he’s off, Clint’s door clicking behind him.

And Clint is left in his kitchen with a drying mug on the counter and a half finished pot of coffee in his hands, the idea that he’s off the bench sinking in, slow, dry, _wrong_.

* * *

He goes out anyways.

It’s not, exactly, that he means to, it’s just that there’s something tight and coiled up in his chest and he needed it to be gone somewhere near yesterday.

He’s in a bar, something underground, probably illegal, something buzzing beneath his skin, and there’s a pretty girl draping herself over him, soft kisses along his collarbone, and as he kisses her back in the crappy bar’s bathroom, he asks _are they threatening you?_

She blinks at him, long lashes, big, baby blue eyes, and then she murmurs into his cheekbones _is this a test?_

 _I can kill him_ , Clint says, because today he is all shades of wrong, because this is all shades of wrong, this girl who’s either underage or barely past, kissing him like this.

 _I need money_ , she says, hands shaking as they trail down his chest, her attempt at confidence, at distracting him.

He stops her when her fingertips are on his stomach. _Who do you owe?_

She shakes her head at him, golden hair and red lips, and she kisses him on the lips, soft and chaste, and says _it doesn’t matter_.

And it does, it does, but she won’t believe him no matter how long he says it so he pulls away from her and shakes his head and says _I can’t do this_.

She is angry with him, he knows, by the way she smiles and kisses him and touches his shoulder and purrs _are you sure_?

It sits in his chest as he gives her a wrinkled fifty, wrong and heavy, as he slinks out of the bar, wishing he had some way to stop this and knowing that he has none.

He needs—god, a drink.

More than a drink.

A _billion_ drinks. Or something. _Ugh_. Today’s a crappy day.

(They’re all crappy days.)

Maybe he’ll black out in a shitty bar, shoot someone…

“Clint?”

Dammit. Why tonight, of all nights?

“Kate-Kat,” he says, wheeling around, a crooked grin already in place, “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a slum like this?”

“My butler just poisoned my food,” Kate sighs, rolling her eyes, “And then he ate a cyanide pill when I tried to question him. It was, like, super cliche, super traumatic, blah blah blah. I’m sleeping at your place.”

“What,” Clint says.

“You can take the couch,” She raises an eyebrow at him, and suddenly the backpack and quiver and bow and arrows and duffel back make a lot of sense. “Don’t worry, I have a job.”

“What,” Clint repeats.

“Oh my god,” she rolls her eyes at him, “Can you, like, _not_ be stupid for a few seconds?”

“I’m not taking the couch,” Clint says.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Kate repeats.

* * *

Clint takes the couch.

He takes it and he says nothing when Kate sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the callouses on her palms, he says nothing when she admits that, “I think my dad was behind it,” he says nothing when she screams and kicks his bed and screams _fuckshitbastard why did I get the shitty dad who tries to kill me_ and he is silent when she runs her fingers through her hair and pulls it up and narrows her eyes _we’re taking him down_.

She sits, cross legged, on his couch, in her rumpled grey shirt and striped black and white shorts, her laptop lighting her face and her eyes narrowed, singularly focused, painfully focused.

Clint has seen that sort of focus, seen it when he looks at ‘Tasha and she changes into a dress, light fingers tap, tap, tapping on his knuckles as she says _don’t screw this up_ and then goes, smiling sweetly, to distract their target of the night. It’s probably the same look he gets when he looks through the scope of his rifle, when he breathes, calm in the knowledge that he has a single task, and the knowledge in his chest that he won’t stop until he’s achieved what he has set out to.

It’s a bad look on her.

He doesn’t like it.

So Clint flicks on the lights, pushes a cup of her gross almond milk in her hands, peers at her laptop. “What’s the sitch, Katie-did?”

“My dad’s clean,” she says, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, “Not even _too_ clean, he’s the right _amount_ of clean, a few messes that were neatly tied up and left in the past that don’t connect to anything else. What he does, it’s neat. Good.”

“Might not be him,” Clint says, even though it probably is, even though Mr. Bishop is shifty as fuck, because he knows that’s what Kate wants to hear.

“Yeah, right,” Kate snorts. Her shoulders are tense, pushed back, chin raised, she refuses to let herself believe it because if she does, her resolve will crumble.

“C’mon, Katie-did,” he pulls away the laptop, gently, and shuts off the wifi, just in case. “Let’s talk. Chit chat. Mull it over.”

“My butler worked for us for _years_ ,” Kate says quietly, eyes lowered, knuckles white, “He took a bullet for my dad once. _God_. So fucking loyal. I never knew how my dad got a guy so loyal. He wouldn’t just decide to up and kill me of his own violation. Took a _cyanide pill_ when I asked who sent him.”

“So he made you food,” Clint says, trying to sort it out in his head, “That was poisoned?”

“Yeah,” Kate says, setting aside her cup on the bedside table, drawing her knees to her chin. “The presentation was off. Smelled like almonds.”

And Clint wants to protect her. More than anything in the world.

But he knows that he can’t, not from this, not from _reality_. God, that would drive her insane.

So instead, he says, “I’ll talk to some people at SHIELD. Get them to meet up with you. Get you more access, better equipment. Sound good?”

Kate sucks in a breath, slow and deep and sharp, “Yeah,” she says, staring at him. “Shit. Yeah. You’d do that for me?”

“Who else would I do it for, Katie-did?” He asks, grinning crookedly.

She smiles at him, this ridiculous kid who thinks of him first when someone tries to kill her, who does research too late at night on her laptop, who probably learns more from him than she really ought to, and Clint feels something in his chest constrict.

There was this one time, in his rookie days, when he decided that freeing a giant cage full of snakes would be a great distraction for the guys after him.

And, the be fair, they were. So it _did_ work.

Except, also, the snakes decided to wrap their little bodies around Clint and try to kill _him_ , too.

That’s kind of how he feels.

But he sets that aside. That won’t help, right now.

He clears his head.

Opens the laptop.

Clint is a sniper. He’s not a hacker, or anything like that. But he knows, a little, little things. He knows people. And Kate, drinking her stupid posh milk on his bed, is one of the best things in his life, so he’s got to look after her. (And maybe that’s a bit sad, but Clint’s not totally a suburban mom, not yet, he’s not _Tony_ level of bad yet.)

So he breathes.

In.

Out.

Focus.

And now, the girl on his bed isn’t just Kate, she’s a client, and this is a mission, and Hawkeye has never, ever, failed a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... did not intend to write this.


End file.
